


Danse Macabre

by takemyhart (sewerwitchlove)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dark, Demon!Reaper, F/M, Faustian Bargain, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Religious Themes, Souls, Unhealthy Relationships, Yandere, devil!Reaper, idk really how to tag this, monster!reaper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 16:17:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15028415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerwitchlove/pseuds/takemyhart
Summary: In a moment of desperation, you sell your soul to the Devil. Now, things are spinning out of control, and you fear that you're becoming irrevocably his.





	Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

> This was an answer to an ask I received on tumblr:
> 
> "What would you say your favorite supernatural version of Gabe is (if you have one)? Lately, I've been fantasizing about the literal Devil himself Gabe. Like he's not exactly dark™, probably yandere tho. He did charm and promise you pretty things, riches, you /did/ willingly sign his book. But now that you're his: body, soul, and mind, things might be careening out of your comfort zone fast."
> 
> Enjoy!

The banquet laid before you was so immense in its splendour it felt like the Satyricon Feast. Though, rather than hungering for the delicacies that once enticed you, you sat disgusted. As if you were the focus of a vanitas, the food before you felt like rot. Once, you had been blinded by his pretty things. You had bitten into the peaches he brought you, laughing and chasing the juice that ran down your arm. You smiled and accepted all that he had given you, never allowing yourself to think of the connection you were forging.  Now, you sat sullenly ignoring any of his attempts to draw you into conversation. He wasn’t deterred by your silence, however, sitting as proud and handsome and charming as he had when first you had met.  

* * *

Your desperation was taking its toll on your skin. When you looked in the mirror you felt like you were observing someone else. The eyes of your reflection moved, but they were dull and sunken and surrounded by shadowed skin. You had a sickly pallor, sweaty and pale. You felt like your frown lines might etch permanently and prematurely.

To be honest, you were surprised you looked so good.

You felt like you should be a corpse. Most days you couldn’t drag yourself out of bed, despite the horrible visions that haunted you as you slept there. You never remembered them, but you awoke each night with your heart hammering, clammy and trembling and near tears. Sometimes you recalled flashes of fangs, darkness, and a bone-deep cold, but largely the dreams were just lingering sensations.

When you stepped out, you couldn’t shake the fatigue that weighed on your every step. You could feel it dragging you down, sending pins and needles up your legs as you trudged. Feeling melodramatic, you ruminated on the cloud of desperation smothering your thoughts. It was more than just a bout of anxiety. You were so filled with paranoia and actual fear that you wondered if you could even manage  _without_  it if you started to feel better. Probably not, since everything had spiralled as well as your mood. Everything was wrong in your life. Your bank card got stolen, your rent had gone up and you were overdue, you couldn’t get a job no matter how many applications you sent, you lost contact with your friends, your clothes wouldn’t fit right. It seemed like more than just bad luck; you swore you were cursed.

Your melodrama continued, leading you to the steps of Little St. Mary’s. You’d tried everything else; you may as well throw yourself at the mercy of a God. Cracked gravestones littered the path up to the high arched doorway. You couldn’t even read the inscriptions, so aged by time and hugged by weeds. The door proved immovable, looming over you like a great wooden judge, fixed and staid in the face of your pain. The eyes of the gargoyles and orders of cherubim stared down at you, blank and compassionless. Through the tears welling in your eyes, you could swear that you even saw some of them smirk and twitch, but you blinked, and they returned to their positions as guardians of the church. Your face felt hot and swollen as some tears finally leaked out and rolled, warm and wet, down your face to splash off the stone below. You slid down the door, to unsure and not religious enough to knock for the Dean. The gravelly bit of the cold stone beneath you was the only thing you could feel. It was the only thing you could focus on. You crumbled, just crying and crying, silent and numb in the archway. You didn’t believe in soul-pledges but a little part of you cried out, begging and desperate for relief, and it was answered. You saw his silhouette glowing through your tears and he seemed to you like an  _angel_.  Like the morning star.

“Why are crying, child?” he said.

You  _felt_  his words more than heard them. You swallowed before answering him.

“I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t mean to darken your doorway,” you joked weakly, not even trying to stand on your wobbly legs.

He laughed at that, deep and dark and resonant, and you felt your fine hairs standing on end. Wiping at your eyes you looked at him more fully, and he appeared  _beautiful_. In the darkness, you couldn’t see his face, but strangely it suited him. It made his eyes seem to  _glow_ , and his smile seemed sharper and whiter than anyone’s had appeared before. You gazed up at him, his black cassock disappearing into the dark and making him appear as if he were not quite there. He seemed to shift, not quite solid, but overwhelmingly present.

You felt like a child before him as he helped you to your feet. You couldn’t quite meet his eye, feeling stupidly ashamed of your emotions.

“I really am sorry. I hope I didn’t get in your way,” you murmured.

“Nonsense, amor. You’re exactly where you should be for the help that you seek,” he answered. You could feel his piercing eyes burning into the side of your downturned face. “What troubles you?”

His questions broke the dam, prompting you to bare your soul before him. The fear that clawed at your chest scratched it’s way free and the words poured out. You sobbed as you spoke, ugly and dry and gasping, but  _relieved_. Perhaps it was stupid, but you felt as though he was  _understood_. As though he could see deeper than you were willing to delve. You were open and desperate and  _perfect_  before him.

You didn’t question it as he promised that he could take care of you. He hummed and cooed sympathetically, combing through your hair and down your back with nails sharper than they appeared.  He  _would_  take care of you. There would be no more strings of misfortune, no big bad uglies following you. Anything you want, he would give you.

“Do you like the feel of silk? Do you desire to walk in freedom?” he rasped in your ear. “Shake off your precepts. Let me anoint you in eternity.”

Like the haze of a dream, you swept along with his words. It didn’t seem real; this beautiful, dangerous man whispering to you, calling to you. You don’t know why you believed him. Maybe it was because the scrape of his nails down your back was the first real feeling you had in weeks. He clouded you, overcasting your rational thoughts and sending you dizzying into his dusk.

You just had to give your soul. A simple thing indeed; it was something you never really felt anyway. It was absurd, really. An honest-to-God Faustian contract in exchange for anything for which you ever dared to hope. You were shaking as you signed it over, almost laughing at how mundane it seemed to be literally signing your soul away in his Black Book. You still couldn’t see his face in the shadows of the churchyard, but you knew he was smiling. You could feel the curl of his lips against your hand as he sealed your contract with a kiss. It didn’t feel as if it had left you, but you felt unsure, vulnerable and shaky as you shivered in the frigid air.

He visited you often after that. You weren’t sure that it was protocol. How could he keep track of every soul? You still weren’t quite sure who or what he was, and you tried not to think on it. If you thought too hard you were sure you would ruin the calm in your once-turbulent emotions. Always superstitious, you didn’t doubt in Diabolical Contracts. You just doubted that I could happen to you. You doubted that you even wanted it to. True to his word you suffered no more misfortune, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of foreboding. Rubbing at the mark he left on the back of your palm, you put it to the back of your mind, not wanting to insult your supernatural visitor. After all, he had only ever been kind to you. Indulgent, even.

He was charming and handsome like no man you had seen before. At times you weren’t sure if he were even fully there. Wisps of black smoke announced his arrival and continued to curl around him as he sat and talked with you. He appeared almost human, most of the time. Tall, well-built, with a sharp smile and dark curls. Yet, there was something inhuman. His sharp smile seemed predatory in some lights, his teeth almost seeming like fangs. His eyes, darker than pitch, seemed alight with red at times.  You could swear that the smoke that wisped around him continued to writhe under his dark skin. Even his fingers, long and pretty, appeared to curl into claws, leaving scratches on your furniture. And your skin.

He was  _fixated_  on you. You felt his stare heating your skin like hot coal. Even in your sleep, you felt that phantom warmth, replacing the fear that haunted your dreams with heat. When you smiled and laughed he just watched you, eyes heavy and intense but face otherwise unreadable. He came by so often, asking you about your day, never lifting his gaze from yours as you spoke **.** You stuttered as you spoke, unsettled by his lidded ember-like eyes boring into you. You stuttered even more when his hands reached out or yours. He was always taking opportunities to touch you. When he first arrived, he would sit too close, so close that you could feel the tickle of his smoke, like hair brushing against your neck. It seemed that he was content for this contact. For a while. He got closer and closer until he engulfed you, making it so that your vision of your own home was obscured by him. Like travelling through a tunnel, you could only see him. You could only hear him and feel him and touch him.

You never really regained contact with your friends. He started visiting during the day, too. Before you went out to meet friends. Before you went grocery shopping.  Before you did anything. He seemed to think that you were his. His in soul. Not just in the next life, but now.

“You’ll love it with me, amor. I’ll guard your soul more carefully than even Cerberus could,” he rasped in your ear, trailing his fingers down your arms. “You’ll know no discomfort with me.”

You awoke every day to flowers. Red and orange and yellow marigolds, blooming open like little lion’s heads. Flowers and fresh fruit and pretty clothes and shining jewellery. He lingered when he clasped on a necklace, dancing his clawed fingertips down your spine and making you shiver.  You noticed his touches lingering, as he stared at you with hunger in his eyes. He sat, playing with the bracelet on your wrist and scratching lightly over your veins. You watched his fingers with too-long nails before you dared to trail your gaze up to his face, finding him licking his tongue over his lips and his sharpened teeth. You knew he wore a mask around you, as shaky as it was. He still allowed you glimpses of his true self. You knew now that he was inhuman. With every conversation, every touch, he was more comfortable revealing himself. He was sure that you were his, and so he was sure that he could show you his monstrous form. He was larger than he appeared. He was large, imposing, over six-foot-tall as a man. As a demon, he was even bigger. His dark brown skin was tinged grey in the pallor of death. His hair was longer, wilder, beautiful in a way that the Renaissance masters could never quite capture. His eyes were red and his lips, redder.

As with your soul, it was his words that seduced you to him. You knew _, you knew_ , that you shouldn’t give yourself to him in body too, but you couldn’t resist him when his very being was made to tempt. You prayed for the strength to live out your mortal life away from his influence, but you were in the shadows and far from grace.

He took you with pointed teeth, almost tusks, biting at your lips. His skin burned against yours, feverish, as he moulded his body to you. It felt possessive. His hands were all over like he was trying to rip you open and crawl inside. His tendrils of smoke acted like extra limbs, shrouding your body and your sight so that all you could do was lie there and  _feel_ him. It was frantic and dizzying and utterly  _thrilling_.

When you awoke, sore and still tired, you were in his realm and were his in body. You raged and cried with tears and fists and snarling words, but he didn’t listen. After all, you owed him your soul. Your soul was still inside your body and he wanted that too, so there you were. You thought you were clever, eating and drinking nothing that he put before you, thinking of pomegranates and laws of the dead. You didn’t realise that he was the one who made those laws, and he would have you no matter what. Besides, you had already partaken of the dead when you gave yourself to him. What did a glass of wine or a bowl of fruit matter?

You adjusted to living with him. Eventually. It helped that you didn’t know how long exactly you had been there. You stopped shouting and kicking, intimidated by his power and the things that skulked around the edges of your vision. He protected you, though. He near- _smothered_  you, not letting you from his sights.

“It is dangerous,” he warned, circling his arms around you. “I may be their ruler, but they are not nice beings.”

He stopped and smirked down at you, wicked and amused, “Especially if they got their hands on a pretty little living human.”

You shuddered, and with gallows humour, thought  _better the devil you know_. It was disorientating and terrifying; truly the stuff of nightmares. Except that he spoiled you rotten. You weren’t sure if you were a prisoner or a queen. You blinked back tears and the line was blurred.

* * *

Bemoaning your lack of attention to ancient history, you turned your thoughts back to the Trimalchio-esque feast. Your thoughts raced as you chewed slowly. The fancy food felt like ash in your mouth. The worst part was, you weren’t entirely sure  _why_. You had stopped resenting him, stopped rebelling against him. Perhaps that was precisely the source of your turmoil. He was your whole world. He was your saviour, your provider, your  _God_. And you didn’t know how you had gotten to this stage. You were dining with the Devil himself, playing as his bride.

You stared at him with blank, unseeing eyes _. ‘Is this the man who shook the earth and made kingdoms tremble, the man who made the world a wilderness, who overthrew its cities and would not let his captives go home?’_  You knew then the answer. Yes.

“How is the wine, amor?”

You looked down at it, thick and red as blood and you felt sick.

“It’s wonderful, thank you.”

He smiled, then, his darkened face brightening, and you knew that you were on your way to becoming his in mind, too. Fully and irrevocably his.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you have any comments or thoughts, lmk below or on tumblr (@takemyhart) <3 <3 <3


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